


A History Of Touch

by destielpasta



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Time Skips, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 02:58:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3341069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/pseuds/destielpasta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky gravitates toward Steve; through time and without fail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A History Of Touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mtothedestiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtothedestiel/gifts).



> This is for and dedicated to my very best friend, you might know her by Mtothedestiel. You wanted touch-starved Bucky, and this is what I made of that.

It starts on a peculiarly cold night in April, before the war is even a thought in their heads.

Steve crawls into his bed, wheezing from the dry air and the hunk-of-junk heating system. He wraps his thin arms around Bucky’s abdomen and holds on, as if he could fuse them together with the circle of his arms.

Bucky sighs and sinks back into the the embrace, half-asleep and dead convinced that he’s dreaming, enjoying the way Steve’s face imprints into his upper back, the warm puffs of air coming from his mouth a rhythm that could lull him to sleep. He would shiver, never able to get quite close enough, jealous of Steve’s ability to cough himself asleep as if their lives were easy.

When morning breaks, Steve’s usually back in his own bed, until one day it’s his lips that wake Bucky up instead of his arms.

*

*

*

*

“Don’t go. Don’t leave it like this.”

It’s an irrelevant fight, old and tired, just like how they became old too young from fighting it. Steve still looks frail and scared to Bucky, even with Nazi blood on his hands and a jawline that could cut glass.

His face is hard right now, and Bucky swallows back more angry words.

“You don’t need to kill yourself for this country. You’re not the Superman everyone thinks you are.”

Steve sighs, resting his hands on his hips. Bucky inches forward, fitting his hands onto Steve’s waist where his bent elbow creates a space. They haven’t touched since the war started, and Bucky’s hands can’t quite grasp onto the thick fabric of his uniform. He tries anyway.

“Buck--” Steve’s voice catches, exasperated but loosening.

Bucky’s already leaning into Steve’s hand before it reaches his hair, gently threading through the strands. It’s longer than he used to keep it at home.

The moment passes, ending when Steve presses his lips to Bucky’s temple, leaving a scar he feels down to his knees.

“I’ve got a job to do.” He leaves the tent, the red, white, and blue of his uniform burning into Bucky’s eyes.

He loves her, he knows. Loving her is easier, and that leaves a bitter taste in Bucky’s mouth. But who does he think he is? Keeping Steve from happiness. Accessible happiness.

*  
*  
*  
*

He can’t feel it, but he can see it.

Steve runs a hand down the gleaming metal arm; an abomination, a curse, but still a part of him. He presses his lips to the cold surface, and Bucky sighs.

“I can’t believe you’re real sometimes,” Steve whispers, moving to mouth at the skin of his collarbone.

Bucky shakes, not only from the sensation, but from the exhaustion of carrying himself through the day. He let’s his eyes fall shut, and the room starts to spin beneath him. Several cogs lock together in his mind in the darkness: order, obey, mission, _target--_

“Don’t leave me now.”

Bucky returns to the moment to see Steve staring up at him, his eyes clear but shadowed with worry. He feels guilt, knowing it’s displaced; he knows now he can’t help it when he drifts off, his mind falling into old patterns. Nevertheless, he resents the moments he’s taken away.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

A beat passes, Steve’s eyes searching his face, his body warm and pleasantly heavy above him. Bucky relaxes a hand, looking to reach out, before a car alarm blares to life outside. Bucky grasps onto the sheets, choking back a gasp, and then a groan of frustration.

Steve sits back on his heels, face thoughtful now. He takes hold of Bucky’s hand, massaging the knuckles until he feels himself releasing, and alternatively threading his fingers with Steve’s.

Bucky sighs and pulls Steve back down, aware of all the points where they touch: Steve’s knees beside his hips, his fingers still laced tightly with his, his mouth softly pressed to his jaw--

Bucky can’t help the groan that escapes his lips, and he reclaims his hand to thread his fingers into Steve’s hair, shifting so that he can wrap one leg around Steve’s hip. _Closer, closer, closer,_ he thinks, his mind the clearest it’s been in years.

“It’s ok Buck-- I’m right here,” Steve whispers, sinking one hand underneath Bucky’s back and flattening his palm, pulling him to his chest.

Bucky loathes the space between them, and he braces one foot against the bed to flip them, switching their positions, pressing Steve into the bed, and finally letting their mouths meet. It’s a messy kiss, and Bucky ruts against Steve’s leg while tracing his hands up his sides. Steve’s breath catches in his throat, hands taking hold of Bucky’s ass and pulling him in in time with his thrusts.

“Want you,” Bucky says into Steve’s mouth, feeling the solidity of the words on his tongue. Words he could own and act upon and it’s all _his choice_.

Steve goes still, eyes softening when Bucky pulls away to look at him. He brushes Bucky’s hair back from his face, chest flushed and lips red from kissing.

“You sure?”

Bucky laughs, resting his forehead against Steve’s shoulder.

“Yeah. I am. Seventy years is a long time to wait.”

Steve doesn’t respond, instead pulling him in for a kiss deep enough that, if he had been standing, would have brought him to his knees.

*  
*  
*  
*  
  
They walk side by side in the grocery store, looking for a special kind of apple that Steve insisted he try since _It wasn’t around when we were kids, Buck-- it’s like a cross between an apple and a pear just you wait--_ bumping shoulders, arms brushing when they would reach for something to put in the cart.

Bucky knew they didn’t have to hide now, at least not as much as they once did, but God does it set his heart to pounding when Steve finally reaches for his hand in the cereal aisle while searching for the cornflakes. It’s a thoughtless motion, brought on by Steve’s desire to lead Bucky where he needs to go, and it sends a jolt straight to his toes.

“See, told you they got rid of the pretty girl and replaced her with a rooster. How about that, huh?” Steve asks, smiling mischievously while pointing to the white box. An old lady parks her shopping cart and grabs a box next to them, not even giving their clasped hands a second thought.

Steve still looks at him expectantly.

Bucky laughs, more of an exhalation of relief than anything. He gives Steve’s hand a squeeze, sensing every line and callous familiar enough to feel like home.

“Yeah, that’s really something.”

 

 

 


End file.
